Mama, Look Sharp
by Candyland
Summary: [One-shot] Gohan lies alone, barely conscious after Majin Buu's attack. He does some thinking about a very important person. A Mommy fic.


**AN:** Another Mommy songfic. Hey, I didn't name the song! This is a little different from my standard stock. At least, I think it is. I know she's kind of a bch, but Son ChiChi is really underappreciated on the show, so I dedicate this to her! You'll see why. I haven't seen a story like this yet, so maybe I actually thought of something totally original! Yahoo! The song is from the musical _1776_, which is an awesome movie, and I don't own it or DBZ. Thank you for reading.

Another Mommy songfic. Hey, I didn't name the song! This is a little different from my standard stock. At least, I think it is. I know she's kind of a bch, but Son ChiChi is really underappreciated on the show, so I dedicate this to her! You'll see why. I haven't seen a story like this yet, so maybe I actually thought of something totally original! Yahoo! The song is from the musical , which is an awesome movie, and I don't own it or DBZ. Thank you for reading.****

Mama, Look Sharp

It's so warm here. Nice and warm.

Trees and bushes nearby give me plenty of shade.

It's actually quite pleasant here.

If only I didn't hurt so much…

The only thing I can feel is pain…agony in its purest form, clutching at every single cell of my being, wrapping me up in a tight web of suffering.

I can't move…it hurts way too much. I can't even open my eyes.

But my mind is still working fairly well, though I don't know how much longer that will last for. My thoughts are already wavering. I'm going to go under soon; I'll black out from the pain alone.

I want to think about how to get out of this predicament, or how to warn the others of the battle that is inevitably going to take place. But something else is taking the spotlight in my mind.

o

For some reason, a very old memory steps up to the fore within my head. In it, I am but a child, maybe three years old, sitting on my bed with a blanket over my head. Despite the blanket and the darkness, I can see that I am wearing that ridiculous yellow surcoat that my mother always made me wear when I was young. The room is dark, save for a tiny amount of light that comes in through the crack between the door and the wooden panels of the floor. Otherwise, the room is completely unlit. Rain hammers against the window, and the wind is howling viciously.

Then a flash of light outside the window brightens the place, and I see myself scream. I scream for my mother, or as I call her in the memory, "Mommy!" Seconds later, the door opens, and a younger version of the mother I know now appears. With the door open, the room floods with light, blessed light! Mom crosses the room and sits down on the bed next to me. I am upset, and she takes me into her lap and just holds me for a while, whispering comforting things. Finally it fades; I can only guess that I fell asleep.

It dawns on me then that Mom didn't have a clue where we were going or when we were going to be back. None of us stopped to tell anyone anything. Not like we ever do, but for some reason, as I lie here alone, probably near death, it feels like a personal failure.

My mother doesn't know where I am. And I might never see her again.

o

Honestly, sometimes I feel sorry for Mom. She tries her best for all of us, and what does she get? Left in the dirt most of the time. By my father, by me, and by my little brother. We're warriors, and it's our duty to defend this planet from whatever threatens it, and try as she might, sometimes I don't think Mom really understands that. But she lets us go off to fight anything that shows up to try and kill us all off, waiting patiently at home, worrying and weeping over our safety. And when we're home, she's always been there, pushing us—mostly me—to do our best, especially at our schoolwork.

And I'll probably never see my her again…

For the first time since I was very young, only one thought runs through my head.

I want my mother.

o

I want my mother…

Son ChiChi's head snapped up. She tore her eyes away from Yamcha, who was sitting in the front seat of the plane, saying something to everyone, and pressed her hands up against the window, looking up at the sky overhead.

"ChiChi, what's wrong?" Bulma asked, concern in her voice.

"What? Oh…nothing…" ChiChi responded with a forced laugh and a wave of her hand. "I just thought…I saw something…that's all…it's nothing…"

But her instincts—the intuition all mothers have where their children are concerned—was telling her something she didn't want to know.

o

I wish I could see her, somehow. I want to tell her I'm sorry. I want to tell her how amazing she is. I want to ask her to keep an eye on Goten for me, because "big brother" probably isn't going to be around anymore. He'll be upset—I know he will. But he'll get over it. I want to tell him to take care of Mom, too. He's too young to really realize how lucky he is to have the mother he does.

The pain is growing and fading at the same time. I'm holding onto consciousness with my psychic teeth and toenails, but that's not enough, and I begin slipping into darkness.

I'm sorry, Mom. I love you.


End file.
